


For You but not for Me

by flyingblackhawk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky and Steve go on a happy murder trip, Control Issues, Everyone Has Issues, Issues, M/M, Natasha loses her family again, Revenge, Stucky whump, Trust Issues, overly tense road trip, rebellious steve, traumatised Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:12:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8067598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingblackhawk/pseuds/flyingblackhawk
Summary: Steve abandons his friends, his country, and everything he stands for, because if there's one person he'd follow to the ends of the earth, it's Bucky Barnes. But Steve is losing control, and it's getting harder and harder to hold on to the only future he has left.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dosvedanya_bitches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dosvedanya_bitches/gifts).



> This story is for Lana, whose birthday was yesterday, and who loves me even if she'd never admit it out loud. I hope this hurts you physically <3 Enjoy the first part, I'd say it was a labour of love, but we both know that's an outrageous lie.

_The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling_

_For you but not for me;_

_And the little devils how they sing-a-ling-a-ling_

_For you but not for me._

_[Anonymous]_

 

* * *

 

The airport is busy, and it’s making him twitchy. Not a good thing to be in an airport, especially given how alert everyone is right now, and with his cap pulled down low, his sunglasses hiding his face, and his collar turned up, Steve is the poster child for suspicious behaviour. He’s surprised he hasn’t been tackled yet.  
He gets in a cab. One step at a time.  
“Where to?” the driver asks. Thick accent. Long vowels. Steve refocuses.  
“City,” Steve says.  
“Where in the city?”  
“The middle.”  
The driver huffs, and Steve sits back, watching the airport fall behind and the bustling outskirts of Bucharest spread out ahead of him. It’s a big city, and he doesn’t even know if he’s come in time to find what he’s looking for. But this is the only tip he’s had in months, and it’s better than sitting on his ass in New York, watching the Avengers being turned into the government’s weapon.  
But that’s a whole other problem, and he can start dealing with that once he’s dealt with this. But _this_ is proving to be a lot tougher he’d anticipated- no- no, it’s not. He never thought it would be easy to find Bucky Barnes, especially now that he doesn’t want to be found. But Steve needs to find him. Even Sam has pulled back now, though he’s still sending help from the States, feeding Steve any information that comes in. Steve appreciates the effort, but he knows he has to do this alone. Not even in a noble way- if Bucky sees anything remotely like a squad coming for him, he’ll vanish into thin air again, and Steve will be back on the first rung.  
The cab stops, and he pays the man, tipping him generously even though the guy hasn’t said a word between the airport and here, because Sarah Rogers raised a polite young man and even seventy years frozen in ice can’t take that out of him. He steps out into the cool air, and shoulders his backpack.  
He wonders if he’d be able to tell if Bucky were close by. When he was a kid, he always thought he had a sixth sense for his friend’s whereabouts. It took years for him to realise it was because Bucky was always around the corner, ready to pick him up and put him back on his feet whenever he needed him. The thought just spurs him on. He owes Bucky more than he can express to any of the others, and they don’t know anyway, because who among them have known a life like this?  
Steve tries to clear his head, and finds himself standing on a street, with no idea where to start.  
Sighing, he heads north, content for now just to look for his friend the old-fashioned way.

* * *

  
He finds a motel, dingy and cheap, run by a guy who is almost certainly using his mail room as a front for a drug smuggling operation, but Steve’s too tired after a day on the street to be bothered by any of that. His righteous anger at bad people doing shitty things has been left back in America where it belongs. Here, he is someone else entirely, and in a horrible way, it’s liberating. He lies back on the uncomfortable bed and wishes he had a cigarette, just to have it dangling between his lips, smoke curling over his face and obscuring his view of the stained ceiling. The golden boy at home could never be a bad role model - the restrictions are endless, and luckily, Steve is the model soldier, so on the soil of his own country of course he never would. But here it’s different, and as he rolls onto his side he thinks for a few moments on what it would be like if he never went back at all.  
He wakes early to the sound of people in the rooms around him coming home from a long night out on the town. Rowdy backpackers are singing in languages he can’t understand, but the sentiment is clear through the walls. Steve rouses, and splashes his face with water before he dresses and heads out. He has the room for the next few days, but he’s not going to leave anything in the flimsy room safe with the drug cartel downstairs and the drunken students next door.  
It’s still dark outside, but the eastern arc of the sky is paling out of blackness. The sun will be up soon. Steve blows warm air on his fingers out of a decades-old habit, though his circulation is more than perfect. People are still staggering back towards their homes and hotels, trashed and happy. Steve finds a nice spot to watch the sun come up, and keeps searching. He pounds the pavement for hours, stopping to eat when he has to, asking street vendors and shopkeepers questions, but his description of the man he’s looking for is so vague that no one can recall seeing one specific brunet. Steve figures Bucky wouldn’t be wandering around with the metal arm on full display, and that just makes it that much harder.  
When the evening rolls around again, Steve looks up at the sky and resists the urge to swear at it for not giving him more daylight to work with. Darkness is not his friend these days. When he’s near dead on his feet, he heads back to the cartel hostel and crashes for the night. Sam’s told him how many hours of sleep he should be getting, but he keeps forgetting - probably needs more sleep for his brain to function well enough to remember how much sleep he needs, but- fuck, it’s morning again. Steve washes, dresses, leaves, searches, and finds himself back where he started. He’s walked most streets of the inner city, and it doesn’t look like he has many other nooks to check, or many other people to question.  
“Hey- you! Big guy!”  
He doesn’t react to the shout, assuming it’s not for him. It’s a loud city. Lots of shouting.  
“American!”  
He turns, brow furrowed. A man is waving from behind a vegetable stall. He jogs over.  
“Yeah?” he mumbles. His hackles are up. He doesn’t like being recognised, even just as an American.  
“You the guy looking for someone, yes? You look for someone yesterday. That you?”  
Steve feels a jolt in his chest. “That’s me.”  
“You want guy with one hand.”  
Yes, thank _God_. Fuck.  
“Do you know where he is?”  
The man shakes his head, and it takes everything Steve has not to slap him.  
“He come sometimes. He come buy fruit. He speak, uh… _romaneste_. Romanian, he speak Romanian. He here for one month, maybe two month.”  
“Is he still here?” Steve demands, and he tries to dial back the crazy, but going by the man’s alarmed expression, he’s not doing a great job.  
“You no want to kill him, nah?” the man asks. “He say people want to hurting him. He is nice guy.”  
“He’s my friend.” Steve is getting sick of this back and forth, but apparently the man is satisfied.  
“He come tomorrow,” the vendor tells him. “I no know where he live, but he come here. Tomorrow in morning.”  
“Thank you,” Steve says, and turns away.

* * *

  
He doesn’t leave the square for the next eighteen hours. He tucks himself into a corner and dozes on and off through the night, past when the man packs up his stall and leaves. Steve wakes to the sound of the stalls being set up again, and stretches the stiffness from his limbs. He moves to a cafe, resuming his surveillance, a book in his hands but his eyes on the stall. He makes sure not to be too obvious, but he hopes that Bucky will be in a routine, and won’t be watching for assailants at the local vegetable market.  
The morning drags on, and an irate waitress forces more coffee on him to justify his seat on the terrace, and Steve does as he’s told, not willing to give up his spot. It is almost eleven when he spots a man walking into the square. He has a cap pulled low over long hair, and a bulky jacket. Steve swallows, his mouth dry. This could be it. Carefully, casually, trying to remember everything Peggy, Nat and Sharon taught him between them about espionage, he gets up, smiles at the sour-faced waitress, leaves a tip (he’ll never shake the habit) and wanders towards the exit to the terrace. Across the square, he examines a tourist information sign along with a tour group, using the reflective plastic to watch the movements of the man approaching the vegetable stall. He buys some fruit, and pays the vendor, and Steve turns, ready to go for broke-  
He’s gone. _Fuck._  
Steve speeds up, and spots the cap he saw before. He still hasn’t seen the man’s face; he could be chasing a stranger, but he feels like he _knows_ , even though he’s aware that’s bullshit, he swears to himself he recognises the gait, the stride, even though it’s been seventy years since he’s spent any real time with Bucky without the other man trying to kill him.  
He loses him twice more, always somehow managing to catch up and keep him in sight. He hasn’t been spotted, he doesn’t think, and the man up ahead isn’t running. Steve counts that as a win, but he suspects that if Peggy could see him now, she would be rolling her eyes at his sloppy technique. He pushes the pang of that particular heartbreak away. He doesn’t have anywhere near enough time to deal with all of that. Peggy can slot into the queue of things he still has to process, and right now it’s miles long and he doesn’t have _time_ because- shit, where is Bucky?  
After a terrifying minute, Steve spots him rounding a corner and follows. A door is swinging slightly when he reaches the building around the corner, so he goes inside. He pauses in the entryway, listening. There are footsteps on the stairs. He counts the steps, and hears a door open and close. He waits another minute, just to be sure, and then starts up the stairs. His counting brings him to the fifth floor, where a single, slightly battered door is waiting. He’s not entirely sure that this building isn’t abandoned - there are a few people about, but none of them look capable of paying rent. He tries the door, and finds it locked. Nat has taught him how to pick locks, but before he has a chance to find something to do it with, the door swings open, and there’s a gun pressed against his temple.  
“Hey, Bucky,” he says, surprised at how conversational he makes that sound while there are about a hundred different emotions running through his body, the first of which is relief that he’s actually followed the right person. Somehow, he still doesn’t think Peggy would be proud.  
Nothing is said in reply, and the gun doesn’t shift from his head.  
“I’m here to help you,” he tries. The gun is shoved harder into his skull. “Ow. Okay. Cliché, I’m sorry. I’m not here to kill you. Let’s start with that.”  
“I know,” comes a growled response, and it’s the first time Steve has heard that voice in months. Despite the clear and present threat of death, it feels good to hear Bucky speak to him.  
“Then why the gun?”  
Bucky drops the weapon from Steve’s temple, but it stays in his hand, pointed at Steve. It’s slightly better. Still not great, but slightly better.  
“Who followed you here?” Bucky asks, already looking around.  
“No one,” Steve says.  
“Bullshit. I saw you in the square. If you didn’t know I’d seen you, you wouldn’t know if someone was following you.”  
God damn it. Peggy’s laughing at him from beyond the grave, he can feel it. He’s a soldier, not a spy. So why can’t he talk a fellow soldier down?  
“I’m going,” Bucky mutters. “Don’t follow.” He lowers the gun and grabs a few possessions, cramming them into a bag. Steve takes a moment to look around at the dingy space in which his friend has clearly been living for a few months. There are a few touches he’s surprised at, the candy bars, the collection of cooking implements, and there’s a book sitting on top of the fridge. He slides it into his hands and it falls open to a page with a ragged magazine photo of Steve stapled to the paper. There are notes in a cipher that Steve can’t read, but he can recognise the question marks well enough.  
“Don’t touch that,” Bucky snarls, grabbing it from his hands and shoving it into the backpack. He is on high alert, listening for any sign that they are being attacked.  
“No one followed me,” Steve insists, though the more he protests against it, the more he feels like it might be a possibility. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and shoots a quick message to Sam about groceries, a code they agreed upon a few months ago. He turns the device off.  
“You need to go,” Bucky grunts, pulling on his backpack. “Go back home. I’m not coming with you.”  
“I’m not asking you to-”  
“I don’t care what you’re asking. No.”  
Steve blocks the doorway, and Bucky reels back. It takes him a moment, but Steve eventually realises - Bucky is afraid. He doesn’t know whether it’s of the situation or of him, but both are equally distressing.  
“Please,” he says, reaching out instinctively to squeeze Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky flinches back, and Steve retracts his hand. “Please, just… let me come with you. I can help.”  
Bucky doesn’t reply, just shoulders past him into the stairwell. He tucks the gun into his waistband, keeping his hand on it as he hurries down the stairs, with Steve right behind him.  
He runs when he hits the street, and Steve doesn’t know if he’s trying to outrun him or some unknown pursuer. As far as he can tell, no one is after them, at least not yet. Maybe that’s just his woeful spycraft, but it seems like Bucky is running from nothing. Steve keeps pace, following him through winding back alleys and bustling avenues until they finally come to a stop at a dingy bar south of God knows where. Bucky vanishes inside, and Steve follows, braced for another gun in his face. He doesn’t get one, which is a pleasant surprise. Bucky is already at the bar, and Steve takes the stool next to him.  
“You’re buying,” Bucky mutters.  
“Fair enough.”  
Steve gets them beer, which seems to go down well enough. When he feels that Bucky has relaxed a little, he opens his mouth.  
“No.”  
“You don’t even know what I-”  
“You’re here to tell me I need to come back to the States with you so you can fix me.” Bucky’s tone is almost angry.  
“I don’t want to _fix_ you.”  
“Yes, you do. You want your friend back. I’m not him, I can’t give you anything.”  
Steve sighs. “I know you feel like there’s nothing of him left, but there’s no harm in trying.”  
Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not going back. They’ll throw me in prison. Or kill me.”  
Steve can’t argue with that - there are people who want nothing more than to see Bucky executed for his crimes.  
“I’m not going to let that happen.”  
“And who are you to stop it?” the man demands, gripping the bottle tight. “You think I don’t know what’s going on over there? People are afraid of you. You won’t find any sympathy with them while they’re afraid of you.”  
Steve doesn’t want to draw that parallel, so he pushes ahead.  
“Then we can stay here, if that’s what you want.”  
“There’s no _we.”_  
Bucky is frustrated now, Steve can see it. Yet, his own frustration is building, irrational as it is. He knows that his friend is in there. He knows there’s a tiny part of Bucky that recognises him, that wants to be helped. Tony might have called it blind optimism, but Steve knows he’s right.  
“I’m not leaving without you.”  
Bucky snorts softly. “Why are you still trying to help me?”  
“Because you’re my friend.”  
“ _He_ was your friend,” he says, as if he’s talking to a toddler. “Bucky.”  
“You’re Bucky.”  
His eyes flash. “Don’t. Don’t call me that.”  
“It’s your name.”  
“It’s _not.”_  
Steve raises his hands in defeat. “Fine. James? Look, I know you don’t think you deserve to be helped, or whatever noble bullshit you’ve concocted to keep yourself away from the rest of the world, but you’re all I’ve got left now. Peggy’s gone, the country has all but turned against me, and the only thing left of my old life is you, and you don’t even remember me. But that’s as good as I’m gonna get, so you’re coming with me.”  
Bucky takes a pause, absorbing all of this. “Peggy,” he murmurs. “Peggy Carter?”  
Steve’s expression clears a little. “You remember her?”  
“I read about her. In files, that kind of thing.”  
He deflates, but there’s something else in Bucky’s eyes, a kind of confused recognition.  
“You met her a few times,” he says, his tone a little gentler now. “We were at a bar. She came in, she was wearing-”  
“A red dress.”  
He seems shocked with himself, as if he doesn’t know where the words came from. He glances guiltily at Steve, who has frozen, trying not to look triumphant.  
“Please let me help you,” he murmurs. “If not back home, then somewhere else. Anywhere. I don’t have to go back.”  
“You’re America’s golden boy,” Bucky sighs. “You can’t stay here.”  
“Screw them,” Steve mutters heatedly. “What have they done for me in the last eighty years?”  
“They brought you back to life.”  
He shrugs, and downs the rest of his drink.  
“I can’t,” Bucky says, his voice softer. “They’re still out there, the people who did this to me. They still know how to make me go back to how I was.”  
“How?”  
Bucky looks at Steve, and he knows he’s not trusted enough to get the answer to that question. Bucky seems to consider it, toying with the glass bottle in his hand.  
“They have ways of controlling people,” he says. “If my old handler were here, he could make me do whatever he wanted. Kill someone, burn the place down, kill myself. Anything.”  
“Then we go after them.”  
Bucky looks stunned. His mouth opens, but he doesn’t have the words to respond. Steve shifts towards him, his expression earnest.  
“I mean it,” he murmurs. “I’ll help you. You know where they are, I’ll bet. I’ll help you track them down. We can get rid of anyone who knows anything, one by one, until you’re free.”  
There is a long silence. It’s excruciating, and with every second that passes, Steve feels like his hold on the situation is slipping further.  
“Why do you care this much?” Bucky asks. “Everything I’ve done… to everyone else, and to you-”  
“It doesn’t matter,” Steve says. “You’re my friend. Even if Bucky is gone, you’re still James Barnes, and you’re still a part of my past that I’m going to fight for. I’ve lost almost everything.”  
He doesn’t say _I’m not going to lose you too_ , but they both know that the sickly sentiment is there. Steve is a desperate man, lost at sea, clinging to the last piece of the wreckage of his life, just trying to stay afloat long enough to get his feet on land again.  
Steve sees Bucky physically cave after almost two minutes of silence. The man’s shoulders slump minutely, and a huff of air leaves his lips.  
“I’ll show you,” Steve promises. “You don’t have to trust me. I’ll help you find them, and I’ll make sure no one ever controls you again.”  
Bucky nods silently, and drinks.

* * *

  
When Steve arrives at the address scribbled on the napkin, he’s sure Bucky’s set him up. It’s a quaint little café, with cheerful Romanian staff and happy families and couples scattered around heavy wooden tables.  
_Hide in plain sight_ , Peggy whispers in his ear. He goes inside, wishing he’d shaved, and takes a seat at a table in the corner.  
Bucky makes him wait an hour. Steve eats lunch, and is on his second coffee when the man himself walks through the door. The relief that washes through him is fast becoming familiar, and Steve knows that it’s because as sad as he is that Bucky doesn’t trust him, he doesn’t really trust his friend either right now. He gets why his friends think this is fruitless.  
“Sam found some leads on a couple of old HYDRA officers who got away,” he begins, cupping his coffee mug in both hands.  
Bucky nods once. Nothing more.  
“I need to know,” he continues, “will you wait? If I go and track them down, and I come back, will you still be here?”  
No reply. Of course he won’t still be here. It won’t even be a conscious decision. Bucky will bolt the second Steve leaves the city, it’s just instinct. Steve knows if he were in the same position, he wouldn’t do anything differently.  
“Okay,” he sighs. “Bu… James. Tell me what I can do. Tell me what it’s going to take for you to trust me.”  
Bucky considers it, and Steve tries not to shatter the mug in his hands.  
“It’s a book,” he says, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. Steve can see the physical effort he is going to. The urge to keep these secrets is branded into the man, down to his bones.  
“A book?”  
Bucky nods. “My handlers, they… they wrote everything down in a red book. If… If I knew that couldn’t be used…”  
“Is it written in Russian?”  
He nods. Steve feels hope, for the first time in days.  
“I can’t read or speak Russian,” he says, hesitantly.  
Bucky watches him across the table. It takes a lifetime for him to incline his head, and something in Steve releases. His posture slips, and he knows the relief is palpable, even though Bucky has said nothing.  
“I’m coming.”  
Steve opens his mouth, but Bucky’s not finished.  
“Only to get the book. You help me get it, I’ll destroy it, and then we can talk.”  
Steve nods.  
“I’m not coming back to-”  
“I know,” Steve interjects. “Look, this… this is enough. Just let me help you do this much.”  
He’s surprised to realise that he means it. He doesn’t care if Bucky comes back to the States with him or not, because he’s actually agreeing to let Steve help him, and that’s about as big a step forward as Steve could have hoped for.  
“Alright,” Steve says. “Let’s meet tomorrow morning.”  
Bucky hands him a cellphone. “Call first.”  
He’s gone in a matter of steps, and Steve leaves enough money to cover the bill before heading back to the drug den savoy to check out. He makes sure he has everything, and then calls Natasha.  
“Tell me you’re on your way to sign the Accords and not doing something stupid instead.”  
He bites his lip. “Sorry.”  
“Where are you?” she demands. He can hear the sharpness in her voice.  
“You already know where I am.”  
“So read the goddamn subtext of the question, Steve.”  
She wants to know why. But she already knows that too, so there’s nothing to do but move on to the next step.  
“I need your help.”  
“No. No way.”  
“Nat, please. We’ll meet you halfway.”  
“I have to stay in Vienna. This is important, Steve. You should be here.”  
“Just meet me. Please. I need to know anything you can tell me about Bucky’s handlers.”  
“Steve-”  
“Nat, please do this for me.”  
She sighs, and it crackles through the line. “Fine. But you’re not going to like what I have to say.”  
“Send me coordinates. I’ll meet you tonight. Wherever you want.”  
She hangs up on him, and Steve, not for the first time, wonders if she’s right, if this is the wrong path. But he knows that there are people in the States who would crucify Bucky as soon as he set foot on American soil again, and he can’t take him back there by force.  
Steve pulls his cap down to hide his eyes, and wanders, waiting for the message.

* * *

  
“This is the dumbest shit you’ve ever pulled.”  
Steve shrugs, and it only makes her angrier. It’s freezing out, and they’ve only been on this street corner on the outskirts of the city for a couple of minutes. Steve and Bucky have driven through the night into Hungary. Bucky is laying low in the bustle of Budapest. Natasha has contacts here, and it hasn’t taken her long to sneak across the border. Everyone who matters thinks she’s sound asleep in a hotel room in Vienna.  
“What the hell were you thinking? SHIELD thinks you’ve gone AWOL.”  
“I don’t have to answer to them. They don’t own me.”  
She rolls her eyes. “You’re not a fucking teenager, Rogers, stop acting like one. We have duties to our country-”  
“Oh come _on_ ,” he scoffs. “Nat, you don’t care about America. That’s never been you.”  
“But it was you,” she snaps. “You’re the patriotic hero, you’re the one the people are supposed to look to in times of crisis, to show them the way an American should act.”  
“Then they should be supporting me.”  
“Bullshit. James is an assassin, Steve. He won’t get any support from America or its government. He’s worse off than me, and I had to save the world twice just to earn what I have now, which is barely trust.”  
“He’s my friend,” Steve attempts, knowing it’s a weak argument.  
“He was my friend too,” she answers. “Steve, you have to let the government handle James, or you won’t come back from this.”  
He shakes his head. “They’ll understand.”  
“Who? The government? Wrong. The team? They’re already asking where you are, and whether you’re on a suicide mission to save James.”  
She takes his shoulder. “Steve, please don’t abandon us for him. I know he was your friend, but you can’t bring him back from what they did to him.”  
“Clint got you back,” he says, softly. “Nat, I’m not rebelling for the sake of it, I- I have to help him.”  
“No, you don’t.”  
His expression drops. Any hope that Natasha might have helped him is fading, and his phone buzzes in his pocket.  
“Alright,” he sighs. “Thanks anyway, Nat.”  
It’s Sam. He answers.  
“Hey, Sam.”  
Her eyes widen, and he frowns.  
“Steve?” Sam sounds out of breath. “Steve, you’ve gotta get out of there. Natasha called in backup, they’re going to-”  
Natasha knocks the phone from his hand, and he runs. She’s after him in a heartbeat, but there’s no need. Tony steps in front of him, his shoulder slamming into Steve’s chest. Steve stumbles back, winded, and Natasha grabs his arm.  
“Just come back with us,” she pleads.  
“You brought _Stark?”_  
“Don’t do this, Steve,” Tony murmurs, his voice even but wary. “Just come to Vienna with us, and sign the Accords.”  
“You know I can’t-”  
“Yes you can,” Natasha murmurs. “Please, Steve, just-”  
Steve sees lights and hears a screech, and shoves her out of the way as a car slams to a halt on the curb beside them. Tony shouts something, but quickly shuts up when he sees that there’s a gun in his face.  
“Steve,” Sam says, his voice calm. “Get in the car.”  
Quicker than he can blink, Natasha has a gun on him as well.  
“Romanoff, shoot him in the arm if he moves,” Tony barks.  
“She’s not gonna shoot you, Steve,” Sam says.  
“You don’t have to do this, Sam,” Steve says, his voice weak.  
“I know,” Sam shrugs. “But I’d rather do it now than have to track your ass down in a month and do it then. At least I know where you are right now.”  
Steve moves to grab the handle of the car door, and Natasha’s gun tracks his movements.  
“She’s not gonna shoot you,” Sam repeats.  
“Yes she is,” Tony warns. Steve opens the door, moving slowly, and Natasha’s gun is still trained on him, but there’s something strained in her stance.  
“I don’t want to lose you too,” she says, and her voice is hard, but her expression is devastated.  
Steve says nothing, just gets into the car and closes the door. Natasha lowers her gun.  
“Sam,” she says, her voice softer.  
“Don’t bother,” Tony snarls. “He’s a lost cause.”  
“I’m sorry, Nat,” Sam says, but he doesn’t lower his gun.  
“No,” she says, tight-lipped. “I can’t forgive you for this.”  
“Didn’t think so,” he nods. “But I hope you change your mind.”  
All three of them jump as Sam fires a shot over Tony’s shoulder. Tony stumbles, and Natasha jumps to him. By the time she’s figured out that he’s not injured, Sam is already screeching away from the curb and back into the city.  
“Thanks,” Steve manages.  
“You’re welcome.”  
Steve pulls out the burner that Bucky gave him, and presses the only number programmed into the phone.  
“Are you on your way?” Bucky asks.  
“I’m coming. There’s someone else with me.”  
He can practically hear Bucky tensing up down the line. “Who?”  
“He’s a friend, Sam. He’s just got me out of a scrape with the Avengers.”  
“Isn’t he an Avenger?”  
“Yeah, but… just… look, he’s fine, you can meet him. If you don’t trust him, he won’t come.”  
“Like _hell_ I won’t, Rogers. Someone’s gotta stop you getting your ass kicked.”  
Bucky pauses, and then chuckles. “Fine. But if he looks at me funny, I’ll shoot him in the head.”  
“What did he say?” Sam demands, as Steve hangs up.  
“He says he can’t wait,” Steve grins.

* * *

  
Steve watches carefully as Bucky inspects Sam across the table. It’s animalistic, the way he seems to be trying to sniff out any sign of betrayal. Steve’s not entirely sure that Bucky will actually go along with this, but Sam is one of the most stubborn people he knows when it comes to helping other people, so he doesn’t know what will fix an impasse here. After a long silence, and a round of coffees arriving via an uncomfortable waiter, Bucky seems to have satisfied himself that Sam isn’t about to tranq him and drag him back Stateside, so he settles back and wraps his real hand around his mug.  
“What do you know?” he asks Sam, bluntly. Sam isn’t fazed, and sips his coffee.  
“We’ve had a few hits,” he replies. “Not much information, everyone who was a part of the old HYDRA order who isn’t dead has gone so deep underground that it’s hard to find any trace of them. But we were tracking a guy in the US who was a person of interest. He was a part of the program that created the Winter Soldier - a Soviet officer who managed a lot of the Soldier’s activity.”  
Steve is somewhat grateful that Sam can at least distance the actions of the Soldier from Bucky. The other man is looking distinctly edgy with all this coming out in the open.  
“He was presumed dead in a targeted attack on a Soviet base, but then someone matching his description resurfaced about three decades later up in Ohio. He’s been living under an assumed identity, but we ran the checks deep, and he’s really-”  
“Karpov.”  
Steve starts a little, turning to look at Bucky. His face is ashen, and his eyes hard.  
“Vasily Karpov,” Sam confirms. “You know him, then?”  
“He was my handler,” Bucky mutters. “Steve, he- he’s got what we’re looking for.”  
Sam looks to Steve for clarification, but Steve isn’t about to give up the one secret Bucky has entrusted to him.  
“Fine,” Sam sighs. “But we have to go back to the States.”  
Bucky clenches his jaw, but nods.  
“So what’s our next move?” Steve asks, looking between the two of them. “We need to move fast.”  
“Zagreb,” Sam says, after a moment of thought. “Or Sarajevo.”  
“No,” Bucky replies. “Romanoff will be expecting that. We should head back into Romania.”  
“Are you kidding me?” Sam demands. “They’ll be waiting for us the second we cross the border.”  
“Have you seen the border barrier?” Bucky retorts. “Wherever Croatia or Serbia meets Hungary, there’s an eight-foot razor wire fence. We could climb over that, try to bluff our way through their crazy checkpoints, or just drive back into Romania. We can jump straight over into Timişoara, there’s an airport there.”  
“Sam,” Steve says, trying to placate his friend, “he knows what he’s talking about.”  
“No, I don’t,” Bucky shrugs. “I’ve only lived in Bucharest, and I’ve never been to the north-west until we drove through it last night. But I know Natasha, and this is the best way to avoid her.”  
“Then I guess we’re going back to Romania,” Sam says, reluctantly.  
“ _Chiu,_ ” Bucky says, a smile flickering briefly across his lips. Steve bites back a grin.

* * *

  
In the suburbs of Szolnok, they find a man who is more than happy to trade his rusted 1991 Citroen for Sam’s shiny new BMW. Sam gazes wistfully through the back window as they rattle away in their new-old car. He stops pining after half an hour.  
“Go left,” Bucky murmurs. Steve indicates immediately.  
“Steve, stay on the highway,” Sam protests. “The 442’s gonna get us there faster.”  
“I know how to get to Romania,” Bucky snaps. Sam rolls his eyes, and Steve chuckles, bearing left off the highway.  
“We’ve gotta stay out of sight, Sam,” he justifies, like he wouldn’t roll over onto his back if Bucky asked him to.  
“Fine,” Sam groans. “Take the scenic route.”  
“It’s not the _scenic route_ -”  
They continue to bicker as Steve drives, and he finds himself feeling almost paternal, like he’s on a road trip with his family. Sam and Bucky are two elements of his life that he never saw coming together, but if the light-hearted sniping is anything to go by, they may actually get along. Perhaps this isn’t as much of a disaster as he thought it would be. He drives until his eyes are itching, and eventually pulls over to let Sam take the wheel. In the back seat, he closes his eyes, telling himself he’ll just rest for a moment-  
He wakes, and feels a head on his shoulder. Blinking, he looks down.  
“Buck?”  
Sam looks up at him, bleary-eyed. Steve feels the bump of the car rolling over something, and his stomach turns over. He sits bolt upright. Bucky is driving the car. Bucky glances in the rear-view mirror and catches Steve’s alarmed gaze.  
“I told you not to call me that,” he chides. “Why are you looking at me like that? You didn’t think I could drive?”  
“I let him take over,” Sam yawns. “Seeing as he was so sure of the route.”  
Bucky gives him the finger, and returns his gaze to Steve. His brows knit slightly as he takes in the fact that Steve hasn’t relaxed from his alarmed stance, and Steve realises too late that Bucky has realised the truth - Steve still doesn’t trust the fact that Bucky won’t sabotage this mission, even if it’s for his own good.  
“Bucky…”  
“It’s James.”  
“James, then. I’m-”  
“It’s fine,” Bucky says, brushing him off. It’s not fine, Steve knows, but he shuts his mouth.  
“Are we near the border?” Sam asks, stretching.  
“We passed the border about three hours ago,” Bucky answers. “We’re already through Arad. About an hour from Timişoara.”  
Steve is dumbfounded. “We crossed the border?”  
“I showed them the passports you were carrying,” Bucky shrugs. “You were asleep, the border guard didn’t really care. He didn’t even look at them, just waved us through. I told you this was easier than climbing a razor wire fence.”  
He pulls the car over, and swaps places with Steve, who is surprised that he’s gone about six hours now without feeling like his plan is going to fall apart. He drives for a solid half an hour, letting Sam flip through the radio stations. Bucky swats Sam’s hand away at a station with a Romanian singer crooning through the crackling airwaves, and Steve smiles. Buck was always a bit of a sucker for a good voice.  
They stop at a gas station for a few packs of stale crisps and some soda, and then they drive with the radio for company until the airport comes into view. Steve finds that he’s surprisingly nervous as they drive to the valet station and hand over the keys, tipping the man enough that he stops turning up his nose at the ancient car and takes off to park it straight away.  
“How are we going to get away with booking flights last minute?” he asks, looking around them as they walk into the terminal.  
“We’re not,” Bucky replies, waving the burner cell at him. “I dealt with it.”  
“What do you mean-”  
“Shh. Don’t speak English until we’re through passport control.”  
Bucky goes up to the counter and smiles at the attendant, who blushes as he chats away. Steve watches in awe as the edgy, suspicious soldier is transformed into a charming flirt. Bucky flashes three fake passports at the woman and she prints three tickets, waving him off as he walks back over to them.  
“You bought flights?” Steve mutters to him, as they make their way towards the security screening gates.  
“Stole a guy’s credit card when I stopped for gas,” Bucky explains. “Booked them on the phone.”  
“You stole someone’s credit card?”  
“And drove while I was on the phone,” Bucky adds, giving Steve such a withering look that he shuts right up.  
“If anyone asks,” Bucky murmurs to both of them, “you don’t speak good English, and we’re all heading to Portugal for a guys’ weekend.”  
Sam is as stunned as Steve that Bucky is so on top of this, and Steve doesn’t blame him. He’s been describing Bucky as a scared wreck of a human for the last six months, and here he is, functioning better than most SHIELD agents in the field.  
“So we’re going to Portugal?” he asks, once they’ve passed through security. Sam has reluctantly ditched his weapons a few hours back, out the window of the Citroen and into a ditch.  
“We’re headed for Porto,” Bucky replies. They take a seat in the corner of the departures lounge. “But we’ll get off the flight at Lisbon and let it leave for Porto without us.”  
“And from Lisbon?”  
“When we get there,” Bucky says, his jaw set. Steve understands that he needs to be in control of this, and though Sam doesn’t look so happy with it, there’s not much he can do. For now, he contents himself with fetching Starbucks for everyone and waiting it out in the lounge. He watches a toddler playing hide and seek with her mother, which passes half an hour of their time. It takes another two hours for their flight to start boarding, by which time all three of them are jumpy as hell.  Only when the plane takes off and Timişoara vanishes under the clouds does Steve feel Bucky relax ever so slightly.  
He can’t make himself relax as they refuel in Munich. It’s a little too close to everything else going on with SHIELD, and Steve half expects black-suited agents to ram their way onto the plane and arrest the three of them. Once Germany is behind them, Steve breathes out, not sure if he’ll feel secure anywhere on the ground at this point.  
In Lisbon, Steve and Sam have no choice but to follow Bucky, who evidently still does not want to share the details of how they’re getting to the USA. He hands out boarding passes after they’ve gone through security all the way to the checkin desks again, and Steve reads the ticket closely. Toronto is their final destination, which he could have guessed would be the idea. Far easier to fly into Canada than directly into the States. They have to wait a while longer, which is becoming something of a theme of this trip. Steve and Sam talk about DC, and they watch muted sports on a flatscreen bolted to the wall above their heads for almost an hour before they board the next flight.  
The first layover is in London, and as they settle in for the next wait, Steve closes his eyes and listens to the people around him. The accents just throw him into a whole different kind of nostalgia, and as Sam and Bucky are keeping watch, he lets himself drift into a little doze, daydreaming of Peggy, and what might have been if things had been just a little bit different. He is wrenched out of his reverie by the announcement for the next leg of their flight, and before he knows it, they are on their way over the North Atlantic towards Ontario.

* * *

  
Steve feels like he’s spending half of his life in airports at the moment. At least Toronto is only at a gentle bustle. It’s early morning as they make their way out through security and into a cab. Sam gives an address in the suburbs, and pays cash for the ride. Steve finds himself surrounded by charming little houses. It’s still early, so there’s no one around to witness Bucky breaking into a car and hotwiring the shit out of it. Steve feels bad, but he tries to convince himself that the friendly Canadian stereotype can’t be accurate a hundred percent of the time. It doesn’t stop him from leaving a thousand dollars in cash in the letterbox, which he hopes neither of the others will notice. It’s nothing near what the car is worth, but it’s all he can afford to do to assuage his guilt.  
“Through New York, or through Michigan?” he asks, when he takes the passenger’s seat and closes the door.  
“Michigan,” Sam suggests. “It’s closer. Besides, we’ll fit right in in Detroit.”  
Bucky makes a noise that’s almost close to a laugh, and Steve nods. They take off, hurtling out of the area just on the speed limit before anyone can notice that they’ve stolen the car.  
They don’t stop for almost three hours, until they reach the small town of Algonac. It’s mid-morning, and the ferry attendants give the second set of fake passports no more than a cursory glance before taking the money they are owed and waving the car onto the ferry.  
Steve gets more and more wound up as they chug towards America. This is the most crucial part of their day, and one errant police officer will turn this relatively quiet international jaunt into a potentially violent chase, and though he has no doubt that they could evade the Algonac PD, SHIELD would be after them in a matter of hours. As of yet, Steve has to assume that they don’t know where they are, otherwise they would have encountered more trouble at the airports. He can only hope that Natasha though, as Bucky had predicted, that they would head to Croatia or Serbia, and that SHIELD has followed her advice.  
They roll off the ferry, and all three men in the car are on the alert. Sam is flexing his fingers at his hip, and Steve regrets that they didn’t stop somewhere to at least find some makeshift weapons. There is a police car sitting at the corner of the quay, and Steve grips the wheel, but the two cops are just sharing a coffee, and paying no attention to the disembarking passengers. They approach the booth window, and Steve hands over their passports.  
“Weekend in Canada?” the attendant asks, smiling at them.  
“Boys’ weekend,” Steve says, managing a smile. “Toronto.”  
“Didja have fun?”  
“Plenty,” Sam grins, leaning over from the front seat. “Only if his wife asks, it was boring as hell.”  
The man chuckles, and hands back their stamped passports. “You boys drive safe now. Welcome home.”  
Steve waves, and they drive through, miraculously still undetected. He can’t quite believe they’ve made it all the way to the States without a single hiccup.  
It only takes forty minutes around the edge of Lake St Clair to reach Detroit, and they stop.  
“Breakfast?” Steve suggests.  
“We should keep going,” Bucky murmurs, shifting uneasily.  
“We can switch cars again,” Sam says, and Steve appreciates the effort he’s going to to reassure Bucky. The soldier eventually nods, and they pile out of the car, locking it. Steve brushes a little dust off the bonnet, ignoring Bucky’s eye roll. He’s sure someone will get it back to Toronto eventually.  
They grab a bite at a shitty corner shop serving greasy miscellany from a lukewarm bain-marie. It’s a recipe for food poisoning, but Steve is so grateful for hot food that he barely cares about the possibility of throwing it up a few hours later. It doesn’t taste half bad, at any rate, and when they’re done, all three of them are slightly happier, and Steve even sees Bucky pause for a moment as they step outside, seemingly enjoying the feeling of the sunshine on his face.  
Without the car, they’re left with the options of stealing another one, or finding alternate transport, and Steve has already used up all his broken-laws quota for the day, so they buy tickets to Toledo and board a train. That tension comes back at first, surrounded by strangers, but as people drift off, plug in headphones or bury themselves in books, Steve feels himself drift into the uncategorised variant of strangers reserved for public transport, where no one makes eye contact for fear of having to start a conversation they don’t want to start. It makes for a pleasant journey, though it’s only an hour. Once they reach Toledo, it’s a matter of minutes to buy tickets to Cleveland. Steve can see that Bucky is struggling, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. He imagines if he were travelling towards someone who had caused him unimaginable pain and suffering, as well as stealing the best parts of his life away from him, he wouldn’t be so happy about it either.  
They hurtle along past Lake Erie, and Steve starts to prepare himself for what is to come. It’s not easy - he has no idea what the hell is waiting for them in Cleveland. It’s more than possible that SHIELD will already be there and waiting, but he’s willing to take that risk if there’s a possibility he can do this for Bucky. It’s odd to think, after he’s gone through so much for this country, that he’s willing just to push all of that aside. But this is who he is, he reasons. He can’t change that, as much as Natasha and his country might want him to.  
Before he can slip too much further into that particular pit, they grind to a halt. Cleveland. Sam is already up, shouldering his bag, and Steve and Bucky follow. They wind through the crowd, eventually piling into a taxi.  
“Where you guys headed?”  
Sam gives the address, and a tense silence enfolds the interior of the cab. Even the driver seems aware of it, and by the time they reach the address Sam has given, a few blocks away from their destination, the man seems more than happy to speed away from them.  
“Ready?” Steve murmurs, as they walk. These streets are quiet, and almost quaint.  
“No,” Bucky says, shaking his head. He looks like he’s ready to be sick, and he pulls away when Steve tries to touch his shoulder.  
The windows of the little house are papered. The door is locked in several places. Steve is sure that the building is abandoned, but Bucky seems to be able to sense someone lurking inside. Sam motions for the other two to duck around the corner, and knocks on the door. Of the three of them, he’s the least likely to be recognised and tip off Karpov.  
“Hello?” he calls. “Excuse me, sir, do you have a second? I think I hit your car, I’m real sorry, let me give you my details. Hello?”  
Steve listens carefully from around the corner as Sam knocks again. There is a shuffling, and the sound of a door creaking open. A muffled voice says something.  
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Sam apologises. “Yours is the grey Nissan in the driveway, isn’t it? I hit it while I was trying to turn around.”  
Steve hears a chain rattle, and then a loud bang. He springs for the doorway as he hears a shout. Sam has struck the door with his shoulder and the lock has snapped, sending him and the man tumbling into the house. Steve springs over them and kicks away the gun the man was reaching for, forcing his knee down on the man’s wrist and holding the other to stop him from moving.  
“Who are you?” the man wheezes, glaring from one to the other. His face drains of colour as his eyes move to the doorway, where Bucky is frozen, staring down at him. Steve waits for Bucky to say something, to move, but Bucky seems to be rooted to the ground, barely breathing as he gazes down at Karpov.  
“ _Soldat_ ,” the man breathes.  
Bucky says nothing. His lips are pressed together so tightly that they have gone white.  
“What do you want?” Karpov demands, struggling against Steve’s grip. Steve cinches his grip tighter, and the man hisses in pain.  
“I want the book,” Bucky says, gritting his teeth and stepping forward.  
“I don’t have it.”  
“Bullshit,” Bucky spits, though his voice catches. “Where is it?”  
Karpov just growls, and Bucky veers away, heading for the next room. Steve jolts as he hears a crash. Bucky starts to tear the room apart. Things are being flung everywhere, smashing, splintering. Steve almost gets up to go to his friend, but he has to keep his weight on Karpov or the man will wriggle out. They need to secure him.  
“Help me with him,” Steve says, motioning for Sam to grab Karpov’s legs.  
Sam finds a roll of duct tape in the kitchen, and they tape Karpov securely to a chair. Steve is just about to call Bucky back in when the soldier comes charging back into the room and lashes out with a powerful kick, knocking Karpov over backwards and sending him slamming into the ground. The old man shouts as he hits the floor, and Steve is acutely aware that the longer they’re here, the more likely that someone will hear them and call the police. Bucky advances on Karpov.  
“Easy,” Sam warns, but Bucky is already swinging, landing a fist squarely on Karpov’s jaw, another on his chest, another, another- He only stops when the man is coughing blood and Sam drags him back by the arm, just barely getting a grip on him. Bucky throws Sam back, spits, wipes his mouth, and waits for Karpov to speak. The man says nothing, and Bucky raises the metal fist, panting, his eyes crazed.  
“He can’t tell us anything if he’s dead,” Steve warns, holding out a hand to still Bucky.  
“Hey- hey!” Sam exclaims. “Check this out.” He gestures to the dent in the wall made by Bucky throwing him off. The plaster is weak, as if the wall is thinner there. Sam elbows it, and a hole appears. He squints, and waves Steve over. Steve peers in. In the gloom, he can see boxes and a few cupboards.  
“He’s hiding stuff in there,” Steve says. He helps Sam pull away the plaster until there is a hole big enough to get through. Steve ducks inside while Sam stays out to make sure Bucky doesn’t snap Karpov’s neck. His back scrapes the plaster, sending more of it raining down onto the floorboards. It’s hard to see inside the musty little room, but Steve feels the same shiver he felt a lifetime ago when he was looking at the Red Skull’s grinning face. He has the sense of being in the same space as something fundamentally evil, with the potential to hurt a lot of people. Shaking off the feeling, he starts his search, rummaging through boxes and cupboards as fast as he can. His eyesight quickly adjusts to the dim light, and he comes up with several loaded weapons, but no book. He opens more cupboards, searches on the floor. After a few minutes, he comes across a desk with a small drawer and- there. He grips a slim book and pulls it out, holding it in the dim light filtering into the room. It’s red, and the distinctive star is clear even in the relative darkness. Steve passes the weapons out first, and then climbs through the hole and passes the book to Bucky. The soldier’s flesh hand trembles as he takes it, and Steve waits for him to open it, to confirm, but clearly this is enough. Bucky looks down at Karpov, standing on the cusp of something Steve can’t quite understand. There’s so much anger, and hatred, but also something fearful and childlike that Steve can’t put his finger on. Bucky clasps the book to his chest like a treasure, his eyes wide.  
“You’ll never control yourself,” Karpov murmurs, his voice strangely soft. Bucky’s gaze snaps back down to his handler, who spits out a mouthful of blood and continues. “You can’t, Barnes. You’ll always need someone at the helm. It’s how we made you. It’s-”  
A shot explodes through the room. Bucky flinches back, gripping the book protectively. When he and Sam recover from the surprise enough to look, Karpov’s brains are streaked across the floor, and blood is gushing everywhere. Bucky retches, and Sam turns to stare at Steve, who is holding one of the antique weapons and gazing down at Karpov’s corpse, his eyes hard and cold.  
“Come on,” he says, lowering the weapon. “Let’s go.”  
“Fuck,” Sam mutters. “Fuck, Steve- What the fuck was that?”  
Bucky is on his knees. His hand has landed in a pool of blood. He vomits, his back arching painfully. Sam tries to grab Steve’s shoulder, but Steve shakes him off.  
“God damn it, Steve.”  
He turns at last, and Sam is looking at him with a new expression, something Steve’s never seen on his face before. Is that disappointment?  
“I didn’t sign up for murder,” Sam says.  
“This is what it takes,” Steve says, his voice hard. He grabs Bucky’s arm and roughly yanks him to his feet. “If you want to go, you can.”  
“We can’t let him go.”  
Bucky wipes his mouth, his hand shaking. “He’ll just help them track us down.”  
“No,” Steve says. His voice is still measured and calm, as if he hasn’t just blown a Nazi’s head off in cold blood. “No, he won’t. Sam, you should go.”  
Sam backs off, and pauses in the doorway. Steve is expecting a Natasha-esque plea, or a warning. But Sam just looks at him, slightly desperately, and then vanishes out the door.  
“He’s gonna lead them to us,” Bucky says hoarsely, as Steve helps him out the door.  
“You’re wrong,” Steve snaps. “Come on. Let’s go.”

* * *

  
His fingers are twitching when they finally stop for food, in a shitty diner on the edge of the highway. Steve has secured them a beat-up old car for a few hundred bucks on the edge of town, and now they have to decide where to go. He can still see flecks of blood on his shoes, and it’s distracting him. The waitress fills up their coffee cups. Bucky is clutching the backpack containing the book as if he’s afraid the woman with the coffee jug is about to grab it off him. She arches a tattooed eyebrow, and leaves them be, sighing.  
“Where do you want to go?”  
Bucky doesn’t answer his question, and Steve waits patiently. But there is no sign of movement in his friend’s head, and he suspects Bucky might be in shock. He didn’t even think that was possible at this point, but there it is in front of him.  
“James,” he says, a little gentler. “We have to go somewhere, we can’t stay in the States. Not for now, anyway. Just tell me where you want to go.”  
Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t… I don’t know.”  
“You don’t have to,” Steve attempts. “Just think of a place you want to go.”  
“I just don’t _know_.”  
Steve frowns. This is uncharacteristic. Bucky is almost trembling. He reaches across, and Bucky grips the bag with white knuckles.  
_“Don’t.”_  
“Easy,” Steve murmurs. “Buck- sorry. James. It’s okay now. Karpov’s dead. He’s not coming for us. Sam’s not going to give us away, okay? You can relax.”  
It doesn’t seem to be an option though, and Bucky is getting twitchier by the second. Steve glances over at the bar, where the waitresses are pointing and whispering.  
“Just decide for me,” Bucky whispers, his head drooping to his chest, as if he’s exhausted by the mere thought of doing anything except clutching his bag and breathing in and out. “You know what you’re doing.”  
Steve feels a twinge of frustration. This isn’t his Bucky. The man is just tired, he knows, it’s probably just the stress, but this sad, frightened animal isn’t his friend. He has to figure out how to fix him, and the only way he can start is by deciding where they go.  
“South America, then,” he says, decisively. He sees Bucky relax minutely, and tries his hardest not to feel disappointed. The waitress brings their food, and Steve watches as Bucky takes a few mouthfuls. Eventually, he lets the bag slide down into his lap so he can eat with both hands, and when they finally get on their way again, Steve feels like he might have just got things back on track.


End file.
